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trans, nerd.

Another Poem About The Cat

The fire’s on,

The cat’s a puddle

On a cushion,

Almost off

As well.

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The Way It Is 

Pulls her dresses from the wardrobe,
Picks out tonight’s, 

Pulls on her knickers, tucks herself

Into her tights.

She hooks the bra behind her back,

A practised hand,

Slips socks into the closed black cups,

Forgets the man.

I Don’t Care What the Weatherman Says

“Indian Summer” is here,

We’ve all been told it’s going to be hot.
So to celebrate barbecue weather,

The fire is on,

The heating is not,

But it’s on standby and we’re huddled in blankets.

The Long Wait for Evening

Recycled and gathered,

Brought back to the cabin,

The three-times tree lined space of home,

We sit in the library

And the kitchen at once,

While Charlie dictates the pace,

We write in our own way,

Your novel is coming.

I’m just waiting for nightfall,

Passing the time until

I can draw the curtains

And pull myself together.

Reverie 

Atop the peak

They stand and look

Across and at their barren lands,

Their failed crops,

The sun scorched sickness

And the wind-twisted

Dry-snap trees;

“At least I have you,” he said

To his shadow.

“I am not now

Nor ever shall be,”

Whispered the shadow 

To his turned back.

The Rain Hides The Peaks

A Collared Dove sky

Softly drops to meet us,

A flap of wings

A flutter and a heartbeat
We nestle in our collars

Unwilling sodden greeters,

Staring out a thousand yards

Or more
In staring

Almost daring 

The doves who are past caring

To leave and let the blue come through

Once more.

Gestures and Scars

An ever present nod,

The edge of the seat, 

Legs which move to an unheard beat;

Flinches of fingers,

Tattoos from the nick,

Fingernails chewed beyond the quick.

A man clearly needing,

Keen for a high,

The man opposite is promising Christ.

Some Kind of Punch and Judy Show

Honest, grubby hands,

Smell of oil and manly man,

Gel and petrol,

Bad coffee machines.

Talk of discs and pads

And clutches and bookings,

Deposits, suppose it’s a walk-in enquiry.

Can you hear me?

Reception’s awful in here

And we’re four hundred pounds

Poorer.

Black Cat

Softly, softly,

Purring and kneading,

Gentle headbutts and 

Green-eyed mystery,

Padding slowly

To nestle on my chest,

Claws and darkness.

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